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March, 1689.  Torridon, Scotland 

          James MacCurrie looked into his brother’s eyes across their father’s grave.  Blue gaze met blue gaze, the brothers communicating, as always, without words, sharing their grief equally.  It would be the last time the brothers would be equals.  When they walked away from their father’s cairn, nothing would ever be the same for either of them.

          He took a deep breath and turned to look at his home.  Solid and somber, Castle Currie stood alone on this promontory on the western coast of Scotland, its stone turrets reaching high to the heavens.  Above them storm clouds gathered and the wind freshened, but the crowd of people standing outside the fortress paid no notice.

          Clan MacCurrie buried its chief this day.

          Neil gave the signal to the pipers lining the top of the cliff, their plaids bright against the gray water below them, their movements slow and deliberate as they began the funeral dirge.  The untamed music rose, shimmering in the air

ISBN: 0446610526

          The Legend, the whisperers said now to each other, just as they had incessantly during the last few months, their talk growing more excited with each passing day.  They were silent when the day actually came and Alistair, after weeks of semi-consciousness, opened his eyes, talked for a moment with his family, then took his beloved Anne’s hand.  And died.  On his birthday.  As his father had, and his grandfather before him, exactly as the Brahan Seer had foretold.

          The entire clan had gathered to bury Alistair MacCurrie, coming from the fishing villages that dotted the shores of the sea lochs, from the crofthouses nestled at the base of the sandstone mountains, from Glen Torridon to the east, and from the blue islands that stretched out to sea.  The people pulled their clothing tighter and watched the small group in front of them.

          “There will come a day,” the Seer had said, telling of the three lairds of Torridon who would be born and die on the same day, of the tree that would be split and still live, of the twins who would bring fifty years of peace.  The Seer had included a wealth of detail in his prophecy and James now wondered if any more of it would come true.  Since his father had died he’d waged a war within himself, part of him believing, part scoffing.  Only time would tell.

          He felt his throat tighten as the priest placed a hand on the coffin and said a prayer for Alistair’s soul.  His cousin Duncan Mackenzie moved to stand next to him and James shot him a grateful look.  Duncan nodded, his eyes solemn, then bent his russet head as the priest continued.  James did not hear the prayers being said, nor the answering murmurs of the mourners.  Both brothers turned when their mother slumped to the ground with a wail.  Anne lay crumpled at the foot of the grave, her frail shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.  As her sons leaned to raise her, their grandmother stopped them.  The prayers paused and the crowd of mourners watched in silence.

          “Leave her,” Mairi said.  “Ye canna comfort her.  Let her weep, lads.  She mourns as she should.”

          “But, Grandmother . . . “ James said, his hand on his mother’s arm.

          Mairi restrained him with a look.  “Ye canna understand the grief she feels.   Leave her be.”  Her eyes filled with tears and her expression softened.  “Please, lads, let us mourn as we will.  I bury my son today and your mother her husband.  There is no comfort possible for us.”

          James and Neil stepped back from the women.  The wind tugged at James’s clothing and tore his hair from its binding, but he ignored it, trying to control his emotions.  He found Neil’s gaze again and saw his sorrow mirrored there in eyes the same shape, the same shade of blue, as his own.  They’d always been able to speak without words, even when they were not together.  Others found it disquieting, but the twins both treasured and relied upon it.  Now they would need it more than ever, for Alistair had died during turbulent times.  War was in the air.

          The brothers and Duncan threw the first handfuls of dirt into the grave, then stepped back as clansmen finished the job.   When the grave was full, their grandmother helped Anne to her feet, and with her arm around her daughter-in-law, looked at the grave.

          “He was my son,” Mairi said in a voice that carried across the crowd.  “And I was proud of him.”  Her chin trembled and her tone quieted.  “Fifty-four years ago I bore him.  I should be long in the ground and he here to mourn me.”

          She took a shuddering breath and looked from one grandson to the other. Her voice was much quieter now.  “It’s yer time now. Make the prophecy come true.  Bring peace to my home.”